A Wee Murder in My Shop (A ScotShop Mystery)

by Fran Stewart

  “Ye said ye would take me to that grosserie store, but ye havena.”

  “I got tired of ringing up all those cans and boxes all day. This is much more fun. There’s hardly ever anything to do, so I can play lots of . . . I mean, get a lot of reading done. I’m going to go to junior college pretty soon.” Her hand wandered toward her back pocket. It was probably buzzing.

  “I’m sure they’ll miss you here.”

  My sarcasm went unnoticed. “Did you come to pay rent?” She sounded confused. “It’s not the end of the month.”

  “No. I need to speak with whoever handles the Pitcairn Building. Do you know who owns it?”

  Her eyes glazed over a bit. I thought that meant she was thinking, but there was no way to prove it.

  “Gosh, I don’t know. You stay here and I’ll go ask somebody.”

  Pulling out her cell phone as she turned away from me, she disappeared into the bowels of the building. Well, it wasn’t all that gothic—she went through a door and popped back a few minutes later leading a man who introduced himself as Mr. Harrington. “I understand you’re looking for the owner of the Pitcairn,” he said in a voice more oil than air. “Perhaps I can help you.”

  “I dinna like this wee man.” Dirk’s hand hovered over the hilt of his dagger.

  Neither did I. Nonchalantly, I moved the roll of certificates behind me. “Could you tell me who owns it? I’d like to contact the owner directly.”

  “Well, miss, I’m afraid that’s privileged information. I’d be happy to pass on a message.”

  I’ll just bet you would. “Fine. Would you tell him Peggy Winn found something he might be interested in.”

  “I’d be perfectly willing to give it to him myself.” He held out his hand.

  Dirk pulled his dagger halfway out of the sheath.

  “That won’t be necessary. Just let him know I stopped by.”

  Halfway back to the ScotShop, Dirk finally stopped muttering. I’d caught the word constable several times.

  “Relax,” I said. “I’m going to put these in my own safe, the one in the storage room. And I’ll call Harper about it.”

  28

  Death—1893

  Stenhouse Pitcairn lay on his deathbed, alternating between desperate gasps for breath and an utter stillness that left Josiah in a quandary. Should he call for his cousin? Should he let his father die in relative peace?

  “I’ve . . . left it . . . almost . . . too late,” the elder Pitcairn stuttered. “Come, lean close.”

  Josiah did as his father asked, forcing himself not to draw back from the smell of the old man, the dying smell—of bad breath, vomit, a leakage of urine, and something indefinable that seemed to Josiah to be the dust stirred up by angel wings, although why angels would want to hover around this old reprobate was more than Josiah could imagine. Josiah’s father had survived an early bout with the pox that had left his face and arms pitted. He had made it through the War Between the States with only one arm lost, more than could be said of many of their Hamelin neighbors.

  “Closer.” Father stopped, wheezed, coughed—a cough that seemed to originate in his toes, consuming all his energy. But the old man rallied and spoke as quickly as he could. “Memorize these numbers, son. Seventeen, five, forty-eight, forty-four, sixty-five.” He repeated them twice, then insisted that Josiah repeat the numbers in order. That was easy. Josiah’s memory was well honed.

  “Why, Father?”

  “Safe.” Father waved a vague hand, and Josiah studied that corner of his father’s bedroom. There was nothing but a short square table covered with a floor-length cloth embroidered in lilies of the valley. Josiah hadn’t seen or even thought about that particular cloth since his early childhood. He recalled last having noticed it when his mother, long since deceased, had completed the final flower on the border and had told her young son and his cousin that when her time came, she was to be wrapped in this shroud and buried in it.

  Josiah remembered his mother’s funeral two years later, when he himself was ten. What had her shroud been? He only recalled her ghostly pale face in the candlelight as she lay, arms crossed in a parody of peacefulness, she and her stillborn child covered over with a white linen sheet.

  Her death had not been peaceful. Josiah remembered all too well her screams as the babe would not be born. He had crept to the door, while young Barnaby, Josiah’s orphaned cousin, slept through the chaos and while Father lay insensible from drink in the parlor. Even young as Josiah was, he felt keenly that his father had somehow abandoned his mother, but then again, the women with her had scurried about, chivvying the menfolk into getting out from underfoot. Perhaps it was no wonder that his father had sought oblivion. Young Josiah, listening at the door to the ghastly sounds from within, had heard snatches of words whose import he hadn’t understood. Sideways, too big, blood, too much, losing her. The words still rang at times in his nightmares.

  Now the old man’s final oblivion seemed sure to descend within moments.

  “The safe,” his father whispered from the bed. Josiah crossed the room, removed the simple carved box centered on the table, and moved the cloth aside, revealing a sturdy gray safe, the front embellished in red and a blue so deep it was almost black. The shiny bright combination lock, he noticed, stood on the number 44.

  “Four turns, three turns, two turns, one turn,” chanted his father, in a voice so low Josiah barely heard him. “Seventeen, four turns to the left, five, three turns to the ri—” He broke off, coughing, a deep mucus-laden sound that came close to raising Josiah’s bile.

  “I know, Father,” Josiah said. His ready mind had grasped the pattern, and he spoke the entire sequence for his father, so the old man could die in peace.

  Father’s lips turned slightly up, although calling the movement a smile would have been too much. “My desk,” he said, and went on haltingly to explain the trick to opening a secret drawer. “That’s where the key is. You’ll need it.” And he waved again in the direction of the safe. “Your cousin is not to know. Barnaby has been something of a disappointment.”

  Josiah kept his face strictly neutral, all the while thinking that his dying father had surpassed his usual tendency to understatement.

  “Call them in now,” Father wheezed.

  Josiah opened the door, and Barnaby plunged in as if he’d had his ear pressed tight against it. Josiah was sure, though, that Barnaby had heard nothing through the thick, solid oak.

  The housekeeper, Mistress Stark, crept in after Reverend Meekins and the lawyer. As those men gathered beside Father, Josiah watched her move quietly to replace the lily-of-the-valley shroud. And stand in front of it.

  “My will,” Father gasped.

  “Here.” The family lawyer held up a bound roll of paper. “Signed, sealed, and ready whenever . . .” He paused, unsure how to finish the unfortunate phrase. “Ready.”

  Stenhouse Pitcairn’s final breath was something of an anticlimax. His breathing had settled into an uneven pace, with the space between breaths gradually lengthening while the minister quoted psalms and prayers. Father arched his back. One raspy gurgle. One deep, final exhalation.

  Barnaby crossed his arms. “He didn’t even say good-bye to me.”

  Mistress Stark spoke from where she stood in the corner. “Gentlemen, I’ve placed port in the parlor. Would you retire there while I prepare the body?”

  Meekins, Barnaby, and the attorney left without a backward glance. Josiah patted his father’s hand. “Do you need help lifting him, Mistress Stark?”

  “Oh no. He’s wasted away to practically a feather. I’ll have him cleaned in no time and ready for the viewing. I’ll need you then to carry him downstairs.”

  “Thank you,” Josiah told the woman who had chivvied him with a rough affection ever since—and even before—his mother’s death. “Call down when you need me.”

&n
bsp; * * *

  After the funeral, after the reading of the will, Barnaby waited for the attorney and the other family members to leave. “A word with you, cousin.”

  Josiah turned slowly. “Yes, Barnaby?”

  “Why did he not leave me this house? I have a large family to support, while you and Emelinda have only one son. You could make do with a smaller establishment.” Barnaby’s elaborate mustachio drooped a bit on one side, the end hairs trailing against his lip.

  Josiah wondered if they tickled. “You know his office is here, brother. I am to run the business. Therefore, he left me the house and all its contents.”

  “Not quite all of them,” Barnaby snarled. “You cannot cheat me out of my part of the inheritance.”

  Josiah kept his irritation in firm check. “You have been cheated of nothing. I was always the one interested in Father’s business dealings, while you chose to go your own way—so long as Father supplied you with ample funds.”

  “Ample? You call that pittance ample?”

  “What you had was more than enough for a man of moderate tastes. What you have received from the will may well support you for many years if you choose to live wisely. I ask that you remove the items of your inheritance before the end of the week.” He paused, and tried one more time to include his cousin. “You have always had the option of working in the manufactory.”

  “Ha! Peasant work.”

  Josiah straightened his usual erect posture. “I learned the business by working there as a boy until I earned my position as a trusted assistant to Father.”

  “I am far too old to start that way. I choose to be your partner.”

  The portrait of his father above the desk had not moved—it must have been a flying insect Josiah saw from the corner of his eye—but Barnaby, facing the portrait, took a sudden step backward.

  Josiah stayed where he was, beside his father’s desk. “Never,” he said. “Never.”

  Father stared down from the portrait, the eyes above his pockmarked face steady and his mouth firm, but with a secretive upturning on one side.

  Josiah waited until Barnaby slammed the front door. He could hear his wife and her women friends beginning the necessary changes in the old house. Josiah had seen the relief on his wife’s face when he’d told her Mistress Stark would stay as housekeeper.

  He looked around the office. Why, he wondered, had Father not moved the safe down here? Light from three tall mullioned windows spread across the rolltop desk. Josiah adjusted his cravat and groped for his spectacles. Once they were firmly in place, he lifted his pocket watch to peer at the hands. He had enough time before he must leave for the manufactory.

  Josiah locked the office door. Following his father’s deathbed directions, he found with little difficulty the concealed drawer and extracted a small bronze key. He pulled a folded paper from a pocket in his trousers. He had written down the number sequence shortly after his father’s death. It would not do to forget the combination, but he saw that he recalled the numbers perfectly. Fearing Barnaby’s nosy ways, he placed the paper in the drawer and closed it until he heard the quiet snick.

  Upstairs, he bolted the door of his father’s bedroom and removed his mother’s shroud. He caught himself. He had to stop thinking of it that way. He folded the . . . the cloth and bent to open the safe.

  Rolls of papers, bound by various colors of ribbon, sat neatly stacked on the shelves within. He would look through them later. He used the key to unlock the small compartment inside the safe. First glancing over his shoulder, although he was certain the bolt was securely fastened, he withdrew a leather bag and carried it to the bed.

  After unwrapping the contents, he sat in stunned silence for many long moments. One by one, he examined fifteen perfect jewels.

  He was suddenly certain that whatever came his way he could handle. The company would thrive. Just the knowledge of this fortune at his fingertips gave Josiah a feeling of surety. If there should be another war, if there should be another outbreak of disease—whatever happened—the Pitcairn Company would last.

  He fingered one of the smaller jewels, a brilliant sapphire. “Father,” he muttered, “tell me, advise me, please. What am I to do with Barnaby?”

  He placed the jewels back in the pouch, except for two of the smaller stones. Those two alone represented a fortune.

  Should he now give these to Barnaby? Did blood ties count for more than honor? He rewrapped the two diamonds, added them to the bag, closed and locked the small compartment. He closed the safe and spun the dial. No. Barnaby had made his choices and would have to live with them.

  * * *

  One early spring morning some years later, Barnaby stormed past Mrs. Stark into Josiah’s office without waiting to be announced.

  “What is it, Barnaby?”

  “I heard you were planning to build a new manufactory.”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to be the one to build it.”

  Josiah looked him over carefully. He tried to keep the incredulity from his voice but did not succeed. “You?”

  “Yes. I have been quite successful in Arkane and some of the other towns close by.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Building, of course. I have a steady, dependable crew.”

  “What do you pay them with?”

  “You needn’t sound so superior. I invested my money from the will in materials and wages, and now I make enough money from the projects I complete that I no longer have to grov . . . I no longer need your help.”

  Josiah studied his cousin, but Barnaby did not flinch from the gaze as he so often had in the past. “Give me a list of the buildings you’ve completed. I will talk with the owners and inspect them; if they are acceptable, I will consider your bid for the new manufactory job.”

  Barnaby did not thank him. He extracted an already-prepared list from his coat pocket.

  Josiah investigated thoroughly. Barnaby’s customers had nothing but praise for him and his work. Wondering what had become of the irresponsible little cousin he’d had to deal with for so many years, Josiah accepted his bid and ended up hiring him.

  His own cash flow was somewhat depressed at that moment. He would have to sell one of the stones from the leather bag in order to pay the amounts he would owe his brother before completion. He also had by that time begun to wonder how much longer he would be on this earth. His son was well versed in the business now but did not yet know the contents of the safe. Josiah refilled his fountain pen and wrote out a code for the combination, using advertisements from his wife’s latest magazines for several of the harder-to-remember numbers. The forty-eight stars in the U.S. flag, of course—that one would be easy for his son to remember. If he should die untimely, his son would carry on.

  * * *

  The new building that began to emerge under Barnaby’s supervision was all that Josiah had hoped. A large front office, lit by windows on two sides, would hold enough room for his own desk, tables for various clerks, and a sales area, all to be warmed in the winter by a central potbellied stove. The back wall had not been constructed yet, but Josiah could easily imagine what it would look like.

  Just beyond the wall, there would be a cavernous space for storage, with a smaller enclosed area behind a locking door, holding shelving for the higher-priced inventory materials. The room, as Barnaby described it, answered a need Josiah had not even seen.

  Behind the storage room, work had begun first on the manufacturing section. It was far finer than Josiah could have wished.

  Well pleased with the projected building, Josiah returned home and extracted the leather bag from the safe that still rested in his father’s—now his—bedroom. One, possibly two jewels would be needed. As he pored over them, trying to decide the best course, the door swung open and Barnaby stepped inside. “Josiah, I need to talk—”

  Josiah tried to c
over the gems quickly, but they were too spread out.

  “What? What is this?”

  “Nothing you need concern yourself with, Barnaby. I need to sell one of these to get the money for the building costs.” He scooped up one of the emeralds and tossed a blanket over the rest. “Let’s go down to the office where we can discuss this.”

  Barnaby agreed, but his gaze lingered for a moment on the blanket. As he turned, he paused, and Josiah knew his brother had seen the open safe.

  Again, Barnaby asked, “What is this?”

  * * *

  Josiah wished afterward that he had not told Barnaby the details of his father’s financial arrangements. He often wondered if someone had been listening beneath the window, if that was how someone had known. In the end, he gave Barnaby an emerald and a diamond in full payment for the entire building. Three days later, the safe was gone, as was the paper with the combination code. Despite extensive investigation, no culprit was ever found, nor was the safe recovered. Josiah died the following month. A key was found in his waistcoat pocket. No one knew what it belonged to, but Barnaby asked for it “as a keepsake.”

  * * *

  When Josiah’s son moved his newly inherited company into the Pitcairn Building two months later, he found the back wall of the office covered in an innocuous gray-patterned wallpaper. He didn’t like it but supposed his uncle had tried to beautify the rather stark room. He moved the old rolltop desk from his father’s old office, installed his grandfather’s portrait on the back wall—the gray paper formed an unobtrusive backdrop for the pockmarked old man—and went to work.

  29

  Dinner of Champions

  I tried to call Harper about the stock certificates but got his voice mail. There wasn’t any hurry about a worthless bunch of paper, but I was a bit ticked off with him for not calling me back. Not that I was planning on ever speaking to him again.

  That evening, Dirk’s glare meter was on high. He paced around the kitchen muttering imprecations—were they Gaelic or Middle English? I wasn’t sure and didn’t care. “Ye canna mean to go,” he said.